The Rest of Me
by Andromeda's kitty
Summary: This is my friend, Jaz's, story, I am just posting it for her. 1st part of a series of stories about the Weiss characters and side characters. Disclaimer: Don't own what you recognize. Mieko and her clubs and personnel are Jaz's. Omi-centered fic. Set bet


The bell rang, and the students gathered their books and headed for the exit. Chattering excitedly, they flooded the hallways, cheerfully chattering their afternoon away. It was Friday, and nothing could dampen their spirits.

Except for him.

Silence crept like a wave over the teenagers, and the stream ebbed away to one side. On the deserted side of the hall, one boy walked along at a pensive pace, his hands shoved into his pockets and his head turned slightly downward. His sharp eyes, however, glared this way and that, ever watchful.

The cuffs of his uniform trousers were worn and fraying. One back pocket had ripped off completely, and been reattached with safety pins. His belt was links of chain over thick leather, and his jacket was open, revealing a tight, ripped shirt underneath. A heavy hoop swayed from one earlobe, and a leather choker encircled his throat. When he lifted one hand to adjust his bag – casually – everyone could see the fingerless gloves and heavy rings he wore.

It had been the same every afternoon for the three weeks since he had transferred to this school. The other students parted to allow him to pass, then followed him all the way to his motercycle. As he sped away, the murmuring of the crowd followed him, just out of earshot.

Takatori, they whispered. Mamoru.

They had no idea. Who among them could know what it was like to exist caught between life and death? Who could say how it felt to have let oneself die twice? Who among them spent every day searching for a person who had ceased to be at the age of eleven? Did any of them live each day in dread of the memories that would come at night, in dreams?

The light changed, and his motorcycle screeched to a stop. Why here? His eyes narrowed slightly as he glancced to the right. Just down that way dwelt the shadows of his old life. Down there his more recent former self had been laid to rest. Down there was the deserted flower shop.

Gritting his teeth, he revved the engine and glared in determination at the traffic light. _Green_, he thought fiercely, desperate not to hear the voice of his uncle whispering from down that street. His uncle was dead. Weiß was dead. The assassin Tsukiyono Omi was dead.

Let him stay buried!

The light changed, and he sped away down the street. Away from the warmth and laughter. Away from the late nights out hunting. Away from the endless hours at the computer. Away from Manx and Persia.

How far away could one person run?

Since they had been the first to flee, he was determined to find out.

Music pounded through the club, pulsing through his body. What a welcome release this was. What with the stress of being back in town for a few days and all...

He had certainly needed to get out and unwind a bit. Now, clad in leather and silk, his sweat dampened hair clinging in fine tendrils about his slightly flushed face, he very nearly felt human again.

It was a luxury in which he rarely indulged.

Indulgence seemed quite in order this evening. Since he was not in the business of killing any more, he'd been forced to select another vice. This particular club would have to suffice, for the time being.

Not that he was unpopular. Quite the contrary, in fact. Several people had shown an interest in him already, and in recent moments he had been catching the eye of one partcularly promising prospect. She almost seemed willing to dismiss her current company in favor of him.

Hope springs eternal.

Her long-lashed gaze flicked his way again, and he twisted to the wild beat of the music. Perhaps she would like what she saw.

He ran a hand back through his hair and stepped to turn back, when he saw the boy.

Through the crush of people, he glimpsed a familiar face beneath a mop of dye-streaked hair. But that was all that was familiar. The heavy leather collar, the mesh shirt, the buckled jacket and pendulous earring... What the hell...?

"Omi!" Distracted from his night's entertainment, he forced his way between two dancing couples to reach the seventeen-year-old. "Oi, Omi!" When the boy did not turn, he siezed him by the arm and spun him about. "Omi-kun?"

An unsettlingly blank expression stared up at him. "Shitsurei." Omi pulled his arm away. "Do I know you?"

A surprised explosion of breath rushed past his lips and ended in a curse. "Omi-kun," he objected, struggling for words. "Daijoubu? Is something wrong? Don't you know me?" Before he realized what he was doing, he had hold of the boy by the shoulders and was shaking him.

Coldly, Omi pushed him away. "Omi-kun?" He brushed at his sleeves, almost haughtily. "I don't know him. Sorry. You've got the wrong person."

Not Omi? The lie was convincing, but how could he mistake a man who had shed blood beside him? As he opened his mouth to reply, his prior quarry breezed between them.

"So you like boys?" Her dark gaze flicked over him in a proprietary manner that set his blood to racing. "I guess I had you figured wrong."

That look of alarm, those flushed cheeks. This _had_ to be Omi. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Iie. Not him. He lies."

"Good." She continued walking, and beckoned with one gloved hand. "Follow me, Akai."

How could he resist such an invitation? With a final, dark glance toward the boy who was pretending not to be Omi, he obeyed.

Good riddance.

He breathed a sigh of relief as his former colleague departed with that woman. Well, he supposed _everybody_ knew who that woman was, with one possible exception...

It almost amused him, the thought of poor "Red" at the mercy of the owner of this particular club. He could just about imagine the things she would do to him. What a laugh!

But it was time to go, he mused grimly. He was just beginning to establish a reputation. Better not to have that disrupted by a ghost from his past.

Omi.

Somebody should tell Fujimiya-san that Omi was dead.

So much chaos over one new student.

Rumors reached even those who had not been fortunate enough to see him firsthand. Being two years younger, the likelihood of meeting this individual was relatively low. Quite frankly, he was beginning to tire of hearing about this new student. Sighing, he sat back and considered turning up the volume on his MP3 player.

Matta.

He clicked the player off and yanked the earbuds from his ears. Every eye turned toward him, for he rarely drew attention to himself.

"Nan..." His eyes wide, he stared at his gossiping classmates. "What was that name?"

A girl named Keiko sent him a look of reproach. "So you've decided to step out of your own little world for a few minutes."

"The name," he repeated calmly. "Please."

"Takatori," Yuko supplied all too eagerly. "The last son of Reiji."

"Mamoru?"

"So you have heard of him," Keiko's poor miserable boyfriend commented blandly.

He could hear them giggling after him as he raced out of the classroom. Let them laugh. He despised them all. Small-minded fools.

The front door slammed open before him, and automatically, he lifted his hand to mimic having pushed it. Shimatta. He needed to get control of himself.

His cellular phone slipped from his pocket into his waiting hand, and the familiar number was dialed almost without a thought. Around a corner, behind a bush, and well hidden from view, he leaned up against a wall and waited through four rings and a sourly grumbled message.

"Schuldig! Farfarello! Somebody, pick up!"

"Nan?"

Quickly, the youngest Schwartz relayed the information that Takatori Mamoru had transferred to his school and was causing quite a stir among the other students.

"Weiß da?"

"I can't guess why he would be going by that name. Deliberately scaring the other students, either." It seemed they could not quite free themselves from Reiji's ghost.

"I'm sure you don't find him intimidating."

That was so delightfully helpful. "Not unless he wants to date me," the high school student shot back sharply.

"You could give it a try."

"Schuldig!"

The redheaded German on the other end chuckled. "Anyway, I'm sure you can handle this."

If only he could be so certain. "I'm sick of being haunted by Reiji's ghost," he grumbled aloud.

"It is not Reiji who haunts us. Shuichi will not sleep in his grave."

The phone clicked and the line went dead, leaving Nagi alone with his thoughts.

Pensively, he returned to class. His music playing softly in his ears, he let his thoughts drift all through the rest of the school day. What would he do about this strange turn of events?

Should he do anything at all?

Someone was waiting beside his motorcycle after school. Of all the nerve. He glared darkly.

"Can I help you?"

The boy shifted uneasily. "Shitsureishimas'," he murmured, his voice a toneless mask for his apparent uncertainty. Or did it hide something else? "Naoya Nagi," he supplied, by way of an introduction.

"Did you want something?" he repeated, beginning to tire of the younger boy's company already.

"You are Weiß."

He gasped, growled a curse, and reached to seize hold of the boy. Nagi dodged effortlessly. His eyes flew open wide, and he gasped softly.

When was the last time he had underestimated someone?

"Now are you prepared to tolerate my presence?"

Coolly, in an effort to recover from his surprise, he pulled a pair of sunglasses down from his dye-streaked hair. "Who are you?"

"I told you," the younger boy replied, with a faint smile. "My name is Naoya Nagi."

"And you want something from me."

Nagi moved toward the motorcycle. "I need to speak with you. Somewhere away from here."

Damn you. Are you trying to trap me? He glared. "You expect me to give you a ride?"

"I'm fifteen," Nagi replied cheerfully, almost maliciously so. "I don't drive."

Fair enough. He pulled on his helmet and swung a leg over the motorcycle. "Give me one good reason why I should take you with me," he replied, not taking his eyes from the younger boy.

"Because you and I are the same."

I doubt that. Still, feeling an urge to tell this boy Naoya just how wrong he was, he nodded. "Hurry up."

The engine roared to life, and the younger boy hopped on the bike behind him.

This all seemed so wrong. Here he was, driving at excessive speeds through the busy streets, a mysterious passenger clinging to him. Where should they go, so that they could speak privately?

He screeched around a corner, braked hard, and pulled up in front of a little caffe. "Off," he commanded, elbowing Naoya, but not hard enough to hurt. He should consider himself fortunate.

The younger boy sprang from the motorcycle, almost as though frightened, and headed into the caffe. He found a seat and was ordering a cup of tea already by the time his unwilling comanion sat down opposite him.

"Double mocha, extra chocolate," he grumbled when the waitress turned to him.

Their beverages arrived, and they sat in silence for several long moments. Talk about awkward. Nagi sipped pensively at his tea until he had apparently mustered nerve enough to speak his mind.

"Tsukiyono Omi."

"Iie." He shook his head stubbornly over his mocha. "It's Takatori Mamoru. I hear that Tsukiyono Omi is dead."

Without comment, Nagi presented a dart, which he pushed across the tabletop. It came to rest beside the cup of mocha.

Fine brown eyebrows arched slightly. "Is this supposed to elicit some kind of response?"

Nagi laughed softly. "Hai, hai, you are a Takatori. But I know you have not recovered from the mention of Weiß. Takatori Mamoru and Tsukiyono Omi are the same person."

This brat had a lot of nerve. "Sorry. I hate to disappoint you, but Tsukiyono died with his creator." Without Weiß there can be no Omi. "But I think you pry too much. Tell me why you think we are the same."

Nervously, Nagi toyed with his teacup. "Anou... We both are alone, except for those who kill beside us."

Those who kill beside us? Weiß is dead. "Iie. You are wrong." He missed them. He despised them. "I am alone. Completely alone."

Something on his face must have betrayed his thoughts, for Nagi set his teacup aside. "Who has abandoned you?" he inquired, his face and voice devoid of emotion. "Who has left you alone?"

Ken. Youji. Aya... Briefly, the image of Aya – clad in leather and silk – shaking him in that club raced through his mind. Did they still care? But they had all been too glad when Weiß disbanded...

Then he thought of his uncle's lifeless body, and his expression hardened. "Everyone has left me."

Nagi rose abruptly to his feet. "Maybe I misjudged you, Takatori-san. But I will not rush to any conclusions. I will see you at school."

That should have worried him, especially since he could not quite remember why this boy Nagi seemed so familiar.

I don't want to think I was wrong about him.

Computer keys clicked rapidly in time with his churning thoughts. Images flashed across the screen. The Takatori family. Weiß.

I don't want to think that the best of them is so weak. I don't want to lose him. Not now.

_Careful, Nagi. When the tigers sleep, do not poke at them with a stick._

"Schuldig!" the boy snapped rather more sharply than he intended. "Stay out of my head."

The redhead chuckled. "My apologies. I cannot help it. Why do you let Weiß trouble you so?"

"Weiß?" Farfarello shuffled over to leer at the computer screen, and somehow Nagi felt a little better. "Do we get to play with them again?"

A key clicked twice, and an image of Omi took up most of the screen. "The two of you dealt with him. Did you think he was easily broken?"

Like me...

Schuldig frowned. "Nein," he replied, carefully studying the photograph. "He was different. Delicious, but different. He would not break. I could push him and push him, and stir him up into a frenzy, but somehow when it was all over..." Seeming almost pleased, he shrugged. "It was done. The next time I reached into his mind, he was untroubled."

"He is skilled," Farfarello added, his eyes glinting with a slight hint of madness.

Sighing, Nagi slumped in his seat. "It's just... I don't like to think that someone as strong as him can break. I don't like... I don't like an adversary like him to fall like this." Takatori Mamoru. What in the world was going on with him?

_Do you admire him?_

Nagi stared in silence at the picture, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

I did.

His key clicked in the lock, and he pushed open the door of the little apartment. All was dark within. Was his roommate out? Or asleep?

"Tadaima," he ventured softly as he closed the door behind him. He kicked his shoes off, placed them neatly beside the door, and made his way into the darkness.

He was used to the dark, and he found he liked it. Shadows suited his mood perfectly any more, and the deeper need within him could be ignored.

In the darkness one was always alone.

He was on the way to his bedroom, such as it was, when a sudden light blinded him. Automatically, he flung one hand up to shield his eyes while the other reached for a weapon he no longer carried.

Dead, he told himself fiercely. Tsukiyono Omi is _dead_. The assassin is dead.

Slowly, he lowered his trembling hands and glared right back at his distinctly unhappy roommate.

"I thought we discussed this."

Shimatta. This again. Well, he was trying, but old habits can be the worst. "Sumimasen," he mumbled, bowing his head.

"Mamoru." His roommate rose and quickly crossed the room to him. "I worry about you, chibi. You have school tomorrow. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

01:45:17. He had glanced at his watch before entering the apartment, and his guess could not be off by more than a few seconds. "Iie," he lied, shaking his head at his own odd little compulsions.

"I understand that you lived on your own for a long time," his bleached-blond roommate was saying, "But please try to keep a little better track of time. For me, aisuru? I worry so much about you."

"Sumimasen," he apologized again, meaning it this time. He had not meant to cause the flaming little man to worry. What a mother his roommate was! "I am tired. Oyasumi."

"Oyasumi, chibi."

Safely in his room, he flung himself down fully clothed on his bed. His roommate could not understand that he was used to staying up late out of necessity. That he had grown accustomed to going out late several nights each week, hunting men who were to be killed.

But that life was over now. It was gone. No one could ever make him return to being Tsukiyono Omi. Omi was Persia's creation.

Let them both rest in peace.

_"Mamoru! Mamoru, doko?"_

_ But he was running, running until his pounding heart seemed about to burst in his chest. Beads of sweat clung to his skin and dripped from strands of his hair. His breath rasped and burned, but he dared not slow or look behind him._

_ His sneaker laces slapped the ground, having come untied at some point. When had that happened? He lengthened his stride, but his efferts were in vain. Tangled laces caught and tripped him. He fell sprawling in the dirt, sharp stones scraping his knees and skinning his palms._

_ He tumbled, sprawled, then quickly rolled off the path and into the undergrowth. If he lay still enough, Hirofumi might not find him. Hirofumi was angry again._

_ Unfeeling fists seized him, lifted him from beneath the drooping leaves, and one hand struck him across the jaw._

_ "You cannot hide from me."_

_ "Hirofumi," he panted, ducking his head. "Gomen. It was an accident..."_

_ "Do you know how important those papers were? Do you have any idea what you've done? You careless little..."_

_ "Hirofumi, that's enough."_

_ His head jerked upward. "Uncle!"_

_ "Tsukiyono Omi, come with me."_

As usual, his first period teacher chided him for bringing coffee to class, which he ignored. The teacher told him to take his sunglasses off. He refused, and was promptly sent out of the classroom.

Well, he could hardly expect anyone to understand just how exhausted he was each and every morning. He might as well suffer from insomnia, for all the sleep he was getting. He didn't feel like dealing with the consequences of one teacher's stupidity. Maybe he would cut school today.

"Oh! Shitsurei."

Just as he was about to leave, that odd boy Nagi was arriving. Of all the luck.

"You're late."

"Hai, hai, I had a late night." He sipped coffee from a can, but the younger boy made no attempt to hide the shadows under his eyes. "You too? I thought Weiß was dead," he added with a pointed look at the incriminating sunglasses.

"I can't seem to shed my old sleeping habits."

"Life's a bitch," Nagi commented blandly, startling the older boy. "Want to get out of here?"

So there he was, at eight thirty in the morning, zooming away from school with a fifteen-year-old on the back of his motorcycle. If only the others could see him now! Ken would scold him. Youji would ask if they were on a date.

Aya would ask him what he was doing with one of Takatori Reiji's bodyguards.

With a screech of tires, he skidded the bike up to the curb and leapt off of it. "You," he said, pointing a trembling finger at Nagi. "Off. Now."

Somehow taking this behavior in stride, the younger boy stepped up on the curb. "Nani?"

"I remember you. You were one of my father's bodyguards."

For some obscure reason, Nagi smiled. "I am glad you remember seeing me. We are not enemies, Tsukiyono Omi. Not today."

"The name is Takatori Mamoru!" he snapped fiercely. He was more shaken than he wanted to admit.

"You sound as though you are convincing yourself."

Damn you! He glared darkly at the younger boy, who simply took a calm drink of his coffee. "Why would we be enemies?" he demanded coldly. "You were my father's bodyguard."

"Your friend killed Reiji." Seeing the older boy's composure crack, Nagi pressed the issue. "I think that was probably a good thing. Reiji was a fool. He had to die anyway, and we never had to lift a finger. We only had to shake the four of you up, point you at him, and pop the tab."

It was Omi who had been used. Omi, not Mamoru. By force of will, he calmed himself. "You speak very lightly of my father's death."

"And so should you. He left you to die," Nagi pointed out in the most pleasant of comversational tones. "Let it go, tomodachi. Family is not worth it."

"I am not your friend."

"We shall see." The younger boy smiled just slightly. "Maybe that can change, until we become enemies again." His gaze flicked to the motorcycle, then back again. "I will stay by your side. I will be your bodyguard."

"Iie! There is no need," he added, recovering from the initial shock of such a bold proposition.

"For the last living son of the Takatori family? There will always be a need, especially if you keep being so reckless."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Explain yourself."

"You are making yourself conspicuous," Nagi replied, fixing him with a piercing stare. "You know perfectly well that when you are conspicuous, you become a target."

Nervously, he toyed with a heavy chain bracelet he had chosed to wear that morning. A target? But who would want to get rid of him?

Most likely anyonewho remembered what his father had done after becoming prime minister.

"Tadaima."

"Eh?" The bleached-blond glanced between him and the wall clock more times than was particularly necessary. 17:57:03.

He grimaced faintly at his own mental record of time. "Is something wrong?"

"It's so early!" Excited for some elusive reason, the man sprang from his chair and ran to him. "Aisuru, I'm so happy to see you!"

From the doorway, Nagi peered around the older boy's shoulder.

"Nan? Who is this?"

Who indeed. "Naoya Nagi. He goes to my school." He had not wanted to bring the younger boy here, certainly not yet. But somehow he knew that Nagi posed no threat to his roommate, and if this boy seriously wanted to be his bodyguard...

"Kawaii, ne? The both of you together, too. Come in, come in."

But Nagi remained frozen upon the threshold. For some reason he shrank from the invitation.

"Suzi-san," he objected, all the while watching the younger boy react. "I just met him a few days ago, and he's too young for me. No interest, I swear."

Nagi relaxed a little and edged into the apartment.

"Hai, hai," the bleached-blond laughed. "I'm glad you have a friend, Mamoru-chan. You've been alone since I met you."

He was used to being alone. Why did the observation suddenly make him uncomfortable? "I don't know if he's my friend yet," he objected.

"You brought him home with you, ne?" Suzi-san flitted away toward the kitchen. "Go on and make yourselves comfortable. I'll get you some snacks."

"How can you live with him?" Nagi hissed into his ear. "Is he your lover?"

Suzi-san? Eew! He glared. "Iie. He needed a roommate. I needed a place to live."

"What was wrong with the flower shop?"

Suddenly furious, he rounded on Nagi. "Listen to me," he snarled softly. "Omi was a florist. Mamoru is not."

"What's the best season for azaleas?"

He almost answered the question. Stupid! Snapping his mouth shut hard on the words that had been about to emerge, he stormed to his little bedroom and flopped down on his bed.

Nagi followed him.

"May I come in?"

"Where have you been?"

"Didn't you know I'd be back late?" Irritably, Nagi pushed past Brad, who caught him by the shoulder.

"Where have you been?" he repeated fiercely.

"Let go," the boy complained, fighting with himself to appear calm. "I was with a friend."

"You don't have any friends," Brad accused. "Schuldig!"

"Nan, nan?" Lazily, the German sauntered out of the kitchen. For some reason, he looked amused.

"Where has he been?"

The redhead eyed the boy curiously for a moment, then began to laugh. "Leave him be, Crawford. He was with an older boy from school."

Schuldig knew. Knew about Omi. Or Mamoru. Weren't both the same?

_Verrat_, the redhead's voice whispered in his mind. _You know what they say... 'The truth will set you free.' If you believe that bullshit._

I don't know what the truth is.

From the kitchen, Brad let out a howl.

"He found Farfarello's mess. Blackberries this time."

Nagi managed a bit of a smile. "I hope it looks like real blood."

_Listen to me,_ purred the voice inside his head. _The little Weiß has no idea what about himself is true. If you want to be his guide, there is something you should know..._

"Where is your friend?"

"I do not know who you mean, Mieko-san."

She eyed him narrowly. Tonight her fine features were painted with the shimmering image of a butterfly. Fresh streaks of blue were dyed into her hair, and her fingernails were long claws of blood-red acrylic. "Lies do not become you, Mamoru. You are always alone, but the other night you spoke with a man who knew you. The one with red hair. Where is he?"

"He is no friend of mine. Where he goes and what he does is not my business."

"That is not what he said, Omi-kun." She fixed him with a pointed stare, her long-lashed eyes watching his reaction closely. Then her slender, milky shoulders lifted in a shrug. "But if you want to turn your back on everything you were, you have the right to do so. Still, you must know that your actions affect your old friends."

"I told you, he is not my friend. I hope you tore him apart."

Mieko-san laughed brightly, the silvery and musical laugh that was as much her claim to fame as her ruthless nature. "It is true that you are a Takatori."

"Is that why you wanted to talk to me? To discuss that redheaded man who was such an irritation to me?"

"I enjoyed that one thoroughly." She slanted a look through her long lashes. "Such a pity you no longer keep company with him."

"Gomen, Mieko-san, but I do not know where he is."

"And what about you?" she purred, her gaze searing over his body. "Can you make up for this disappointment?"

"You honor me with your attention, Mieko-san."

"I do nothing of the like," she retorted, seizing him by the jaw and pulling him toward her. "You let me down. Are you man enough to set things right?"

Their lips were a breath apart, and her nails dug into his throat just behind the rapid throbbing of his pulse. "Why don't you find out?" he murmured, meeting her piercing gaze without flinching.

She drew him to her for a fierce kiss. Teeth raked over his lips, and then she pushed him away, hard. When he fell back, she pounced atop him, her hands slipping beneath his shirt.

"So young, so delicious." Mieko-san bent her head to his neck and murmured, "I think I'm going to enjoy this, Omi-kun."

"Iie!"

He shoved her, then scrambled backward as she tumbled to the side.

"I am not Omi! Omi is dead!"

Nagi met him outside the apartment every morning before school. The stubborn brat said practically nothing to him along the entire way. They went their separate ways for classes, but every afternoon there he was, waiting by the motorcycle. Was this what it felt like to be stalked? Abruptly, he found himself sympathizing with Heero Yui from Gundam Wing.

One day, after three nearly sleepless nights, he realized he was actually glad to see the younger boy. Why? What did he gain from their silent rides together? Was he, a Takatori, drawing comfort from the presence of another human being? Absurd. And no power on earth could make him trust one of his father's former bodyguards.

...Right?

To make matters worse, Suzi-san began teasing him, suggesting that Nagi was his boyfriend. Even if the idea was not far too weird to bear consideration, the fact remained that the younger boy could not be trusted.

One afternoon, Nagi tugged at his sleeve.  
"Turn here."

He obliged, and soon found familiar buildings whizzing past. Cruel little bastard.

"Here."

They went inside the restaraunt and ordered coffee. Perhaps this had been their destination after all? Rather than down the street and around the corner...?

After yet another long silence, Nagi glanced toward him. "Are you ready to talk to me?"

He continued to gaze out the window. "Talk about what?"

"Tsukiyono Omi and Takatori Mamoru."

"Is there anything left to discuss?" he inquired, sounding completely bored with the topic. "I thought Omi had been laid to rest."

Nagi shrugged. "Then tell me about Mamoru."

The conversation began haltingly, with discussion of favorite movies. By their third cups of coffee, however, they were both laughing over their mutual taste in video games. It felt good to laugh again.

"I bet Omi likes that game too."

Abruptly, he stopped laughing. Cunning little brat was trying to trick him. "Why will you not leave Omi alone?" he demanded, surprising himself with his own lack of irritation.

"Because Omi is the best of Weiß." Nagi hunched over his coffee cup. "He is the most skilled, and... And he believes in Weiß. At least, I thought he did."

"But... Weiß is dead. Omi cannot go on without Weiß."

Nagi eyed him without expression. "I thought that you might be stronger than that."

"Why?" he demanded, leaning forward. "I'm only a Takatori. Why would you ever think I might be strong?"

"Only a Takatori?" Nagi sipped from his coffee cup. "Yes, only Shuichi's son."

"Uso!"

He leapt to his feet, nearly overturning his chair. He couldn't be Persia's son... could he?

"It's completely true," Nagi replied calmly. "Schuldig told me that Reiji did not pay your ransom because you were actually his brother's son. The question is, are you willing to accept the person you really are?"

Tsukiyono Omi... The name Persia gave him... The name given to him by his father... His real father...

His real father had come to save him. His real father had never abandoned him. Had his father been proud of him?

Would his father be proud now?

"Excuse me. I have to go."

Nagi sighed softly over his coffee as the motorcycle roared to life. That was no surprise, but at least Omi had been ready to hear him.

He slipped his phone from his pocket and dialed a number. "Schuldig? Sculdig, pick up."

"He's not here."

"Farfarello?" Perfect. "Do you know when he'll be back? Or Brad? I need somebody to pick me up."

"Brad left his car."

Which left Nagi with the terrifying prospect of riding in a car driven by Farfarello, and worse – how Brad would react later.

"Where are you?"

...How could he resist?

"Tadaima."

"Where have you been? I was—"

The look on his face stopped his roommate mid-rant. With a weary sigh, he kicked off his shoes and put his bag down. "Is there anything to eat?"

"There's leftover takeout in the kitchen. Why are you drenched? Where's your little friend?"

He dripped all the way to the kitchen, where he helped himself to a box of noodles. "It rained while I was at the cemetery. I suppose I should go have a shower."

"Mamoru, were you..." Suzi-san hesitated. "Were you visiting your parents' graves?"

"Hai. And my s- my cousin's as well." Cousin. How strange.

The bleached-blond eyed him curiously. "Are you okay?"

Was he? "I think so. Yes, I am." He finished with the noodles and headed for the shower. "I'm going to transfer back to my old school," he said on his way past his roommate.

Halfway down the hallway, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. "Suzi-san, I'd really prefer it if you'd call me Omi."


End file.
